


Sparks and their fires

by deanssam



Series: Our quaking bones [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanssam/pseuds/deanssam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has seizures and his brother has worries. Canon-compliant for season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam's grief is a tangible thing, terrifying in its enormity, a shadow crouched on the worn leather between them, whispering dark things into Sam's ear while he sleeps.

He wakes up screaming, sometimes, other times dragging in great, gasping breaths like he's just surfacing from too long underwater. He doesn't offer anything up about his nightmares, and for the most part, Dean doesn't press. The Winchester tradition of repression and silence runs deep.

It scares him, though, the reckless edge he sees in Sam. He's never trodden so carefully, and still he's never felt so defenseless. He feels like he's sprinting with an unbalanced load, doing everything he can to stay upright, just waiting for the inevitable wreck.

And that's to say nothing of the seizures.

The first one comes on worryingly soon. They're on the road, somewhere just off the California-Nevada border, headed east.

Sam starts fidgeting all the sudden, sits up a little straighter and kneads his hands together restlessly. Dean comes quickly to a state of alert, turning vigilant eyes on his brother. He's just about to ask if he's alright, but Sam speaks before he can, mouth shaping just barely around Dean's name, the short, harsh sound forced out on an exhale.

Dean yanks the steering wheel to the right, pulling the car sharply off the road. He's out and around to Sam's side of the car before Sam's even had a chance to open the door. He works quickly, efficient, pulling Sam to his feet with two hands fisted in his shirt, getting them over the guardrail and then several feet away from it before moving to the ground. Sam goes along with him, pliant, his gaze directed down and his breathing carefully steady. 

It's actually a not a bad place for it, if Dean could choose. They're several miles out of the nearest inhabited area, which means no close hospitals, but they've done this more than a few times, and the only time they've needed medical intervention was when Sam was ten and smacked his head on the table on the way down. They're surrounded by low hills, the ground all dry, winter-brown grass, soft and even under the soles of Dean's boots. The worst thing Sam's going to get here is a couple burrs.

"You doing okay?" Dean asks, giving Sam a once-over.

Sam gives a small nod, not looking up. His hands fist in the grass next to Dean's feet, clenching briefly and then relaxing.

"Let's get you lying down," Dean says, tugging Sam's hands free of the grass and pushing him gently back. Sam makes a little noise of agitation, but goes, letting Dean guide him down. Dean pulls off his jacket and bundles it up, pillowing it under Sam's head. 

Sam's very still, every muscle carefully restrained, as if he can stop the seizure coming if he tries hard enough.

"I don't want to," he says suddenly, and there's a familiar edge to his voice.

"It's okay," Dean says, keeping his voice very calm. "Just relax."

Sam presses one hand over his eyes. "What if it's just a fluke? Just anxiety?" his tone is hopeful.

"Could be," Dean allows. "We'll stay here a couple minutes anyway, though, alright? To be safe."

Sam's fingers dig into his temples, nails going white with the pressure, and he pulls in a quick, hitching breath. 

Dean rubs one hand up and down over Sam's shoulder. "Look, if it happens, it happens, okay? I know, it sucks, but it'll be over in no time. You just gotta let it take its course."

Sam makes a little noise of distress, one hand flying up to clamp around Dean's wrist. Dean pulls his arm back, slipping through Sam's grasp so that he can take his hand instead, slotting their thumbs together.

"Easy," he says, in a low voice. "I'm right here."

Sam's past speaking, Dean can tell, but his hand moves against Dean's, squeezing and then relaxing a few times.

Dean takes Sam's wrist in his other hand, bracing him. "It's okay, Sammy," he says, quiet. "I got you; I'm not going anywhere."

Sam's mouth is working, lips coming together and then parting around each heavy breath. His hold on Dean's hand loosens, and Dean lets him go, shifting back onto his knees for what's coming.

Sure enough, a couple seconds later it starts. Sam's whole body pulls taut, like a plucked cello string, static for a long instant. Then the spasms come, beginning in almost imperceptible twitching around his eyes and intensifying quickly, spreading across his body until his whole frame convulses. He rolls off of his side, bucking up and then falling back. His arms stretch rigidly out in front of him, wrists curled unnaturally in on themselves. 

Dean checks his watch more times than necessary, counting seconds. There's a knot in his gut that only comes with feeling this kind of vulnerability, and it occurs to him perversely that he's more comfortable at gunpoint than he is in these unending minutes.

Gradually, the convulsions subside into rolling shudders as Sam's muscles unclench, rhythm slowing until he's more still than active. Dean checks his watch one more time: one minute, forty-three seconds since the fit started. Then he moves back towards Sam, taking him by the shoulders so he can maneuver him back onto his side.

"Just going to get you back over," he says, explaining as he works with him. "I'm gonna sit right here- give you a better pillow, whatcha think?" he says, lifting Sam's head gently into his lap. 

Sam doesn't give any indication of having heard, eyes unfocused, lips still parted. His breath comes in rough, vocal drags, chest rising and falling dramatically with each. One of his feet is still going, ankle sickling as his heel lifts off the ground. 

Dean pulls his shirt sleeve over the pad of his thumb so he can wipe the corner of Sam's mouth, rubbing slow circles into Sam's back with his other hand. He talks to Sam as he does, words with no real importance except to stop Sam coming to not knowing where he is.

"That wasn't such a bad one, was it? And we got a good warning, too, didn't we? I'm glad we did. Would've been messy having to do that in the car, huh?" He tucks Sam's hair behind his ears, running his fingers lightly over his scalp. "Been so long, Sammy, I was afraid I might've forgotten. I guess that's the kinda thing you don't forget though, huh?" He chuckles to himself. "Well, I guess you sorta forget, don't you? Seeing, though. It's different. I always wondered what it was like to feel it, you know?" Something occurs to him. "Say, Sammy, you ever seen someone have a seizure? Huh. I guess you haven't. Never really thought about that."

Sam makes a little sound, then, half a groan, bringing one hand up like he's going to touch his face, but doesn't quite make it. Dean straightens up a little.

"Hey, hey. You with me? Sammy? I'm right here, alright?"

Sam shifts, lifting his head like he might try to sit up. Dean catches his shoulder, ready to hold him back if he needs to.

"Take it easy, okay? Let's just sit tight for a minute."

Sam turns his head up, eyes roving over Dean's face. He seems suddenly very young, eyes wide and apprehensive, quiet except for the quick, ragged breaths he's still sucking in.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, smiling. "You remember me, huh? The most awesome big brother in the world?" 

Sam's gaze is fixed on Dean's eyes, still just looking. 

"Say my name, Sammy, can you do that? Tell me my name."

Sam doesn't reply for several seconds. Then he does, _Dean_ ghosting out on an exhale like it's everything he has.

"That's right," Dean says, proud as if Sam's just taken down a bad guy. "Welcome back, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam says again, more clearly. His eyelids flutter.

Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair again. "You get some rest, okay? We're not in any hurry." He picks up his jacket from where it lays still bundled beside them and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. Sam blinks at him a few more times, then closes his eyes, letting his head fall back to the side. He's out a moment later.

 

Sam wakes up slowly. After a few minutes of shifting around, he opens his eyes and looks up at Dean, then frowns, squinting as if he's never seen him before.

" _Dean?_ " he asks. "What are you-" He stops, lips still parted around the last word, and Dean can practically see his mind working.

"Hey there," he says gently. "You remember what happened?"

But instead of recognition something wretched flits across Sam's features. His lips pull taught around a quick, shaky breath.

"The fire." He pushes the words out like dull bullets, face crumpling. Realization hits Dean like a physical blow, all the air pressed out of his lungs as if he's absorbing Sam's shock. _Not just the seizure. He'd forgotten everything._

"Sammy-" he starts helplessly, but he can't think of a thing to say.

Sam turns his head away, pressing his face into Dean's knee like he's trying to hide in the folds of his jeans. His shoulders shake.

Dean takes a few long breaths, trying to ease the aching knot beneath his ribcage. He can't offer any words, not really. Nothing that could fix this. He reaches for Sam's hand instead, finds it fisted against Sam's chest. Sam lets him work his fingers through his and squeezes Dean's hand briefly. Dean holds on tight.

 

It's a long time before Sam sits up, and when he does, he moves like an old man, bracing himself against the dry ground like it's all he can do to support his weight. Dean helps him to his feet, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt and the other wrapped around his shoulder. They walk slowly back to the car. Sam won't meet Dean's eyes, head dropped so that his hair hides his face, and Dean doesn't push it, just goes quietly along with him. 

When they get there, Dean opens the back door and Sam comes to an abrupt stop. 

"Come on, you can catch a nap while we're on the road," Dean says, nudging him forward. Sam doesn't look up.

"I don't want to sleep," he says, so low Dean almost misses it. He looks up, then, and his eyes are frighteningly hollow.

And hell if Dean can argue with him. He squeezes Sam's shoulder.

"Okay," he says, closing the door and opening the front one instead. "Okay, sit up with me, then."

Sam falls asleep all the same, a mile or so out, head dropping down onto Dean's shoulder like they're little kids curled up in the back seat again. He comes half awake, once, lets out a sharp, bitten off cry and grabs Dean's arm so sudden that he startles and jerks the car half off the road. When he regains control of the wheel and leans forward to get a look at Sam's face, his eyes are closed and his breathing even again, though he hasn't loosed his grip on Dean's arm.

Dean shifts with his left hand all the way to Reno.


	2. Chapter 2

In early January they watch the sun set over Lake Erie. It's freezing cold; the kind of deep chill that cuts right through Dean's jacket as soon as the air hits it, but the hood of the car is warm on the backs of his knees and Sam's like a furnace where he's pressed up shoulder to toe beside him.

Dean curves his lips and puffs out two perfect rings of the condensation on his breath. Sam tries to mimic him and fails miserably and laughs, actually _laughs_ , sudden and uninhibited. He cuts it short after an instant like he's startled himself, but when Dean glances over his eyes are still bright and almost hopeful. 

The sun passes behind a cluster of wispy clouds above the horizon and the sky goes theatrically gaudy, lighting up in oranges and purples and dramatic dark grays.

"Ain't that a thing," Dean says, nudging Sam with his shoulder.

Sam clears his throat like he doesn't quite trust his voice. "Sure is pretty," he agrees.

 

Everything- settles. It's not perfect, but it's better than Dean's had in years: Sam, the road, the flame of the hunt beneath them. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's Sam screaming in his sleep and waking up choking on smoke that isn't there. Sometimes it's defeating, the wild goose chase they're on, feels like they're running through sand until Dean's knees ache. But sometimes it's good, sometimes it's _happy_.

They map out constellations above a dry cornfield off of an Iowa road with a number and no name.

In Indiana, Dean makes Sam laugh out loud, and can't stop smiling until his cheeks ache.

 

They hunt a rawhead outside Kansas City, and everything goes south.

When Dean gets back from the hospital Sam is a mess, sleepless and shifty and chewing at his fingernails like he's trying to bite them off. Dean teases and cajoles and tries to get him to lighten up a little, but it's frustratingly futile.

"Have you slept at all?" he asks once, when he wakes up to find Sam sitting still glued to his computer screen.

"Got a couple hours yesterday," Sam says, not looking up.

A prickle of worry runs through Dean.

"You gotta get some rest, man," he says, and it comes out a little plaintive. Sam doesn't seem to notice.

"I'll sleep when this is fixed," he says roughly.

"Sammy-" Dean starts, but Sam does turn to look at him then, and there's something naked and terrifying in his expression.

"Don't," he says, voice raw.

Dean doesn't.

 

It comes on sudden, no warning at all. Sam's hunched over the desk, one leg jiggling vigorously up and down like he's had too much caffeine, entirely absorbed in whatever he's reading. Dean's lying on the bed, ostensibly resting, staring for equal intervals at the ceiling and at Sam's back.

Dean closes his eyes for ten seconds, maybe, out of boredom more than any tiredness. There's a thump, and Dean's eyes fly open and Sam's chair is empty.

It takes him far too long to heave himself up off the bed, keeping up a sustained string of profanity fitted in around Sam's name as he does; _Sammy, shit, shit, fuck, Sam; I fucking knew this was going to happen, god fucking damnit, Sammy, shit, fuck, Sam, fuck._

By the time he gets over to Sam the seizure's going full force, convulsions wringing through him like he's a puppet whose strings are being toyed with. It's all Dean can do to kick the chair out of reach and wedge himself between Sam and the bed as a human shield between his thrashing brother and the hardwood. He takes several smacks for his trouble.

Two minutes in, it hasn't eased up at all, and Dean is starting to get nervous. At two minutes thirty, he pulls out his phone and flips it open. At three minutes, he keys in 9-1-1 and sets it carefully down within reach. His heart is pounding heavy with dread. 

By three and a half minutes, though, it's slowing, first steadily and then all at once. One last tremor runs through Sam and then he's still. _Four minutes, seven seconds._ Dean drops his head back against the footboard and allows himself a few shaky breaths.

When he's got Sam over onto his side and as comfortable as he can, Dean settles down to wait. He tracks Sam's breathing meticulously, grateful for each miraculous rise and fall of his shoulder beneath Dean's hand. 

Sam doesn't wake up right afterwards like he often does, but Dean doesn't let himself get too worked up about it. He's still, and he's breathing, and Dean is counting his blessings. The worst is past; now they've just got to lay low a couple days and recuperate before they get back on the road. Or- whatever.

At the thirty minute mark, Dean's urgent need to piss overrides his determination to stay put until Sam wakes up, and he eases himself to his feet.

He plants one hand against the wall as he shakes and drops his head, feeling a little dizzy. Rinsing his hands, he leans forward and inspects the dark circles under his eyes. Twin reminders: his clock is ticking, and whatever he might tell Sam, he's not ready to go yet.

Sam's not ready for him to go yet, and there's what makes all the difference. Sam may or may not have just triggered a seizure because of how shittily he's been taking care of himself since Dean got sick. When he's back on his feet, he and Dean are going to have a Talk.

Dean glances down at the counter when he goes for the hand towel, and his gaze snags on Sam's medicine bag. Battered pink plastic peeks out from underneath the toothbrush and razor. With a little _huh_ of amused delight, Dean pulls it out.

It's a pill organizer, cheap and shabby with use, the one Dean bought Sam when he was twelve and wanted to be trusted to keep track of them himself. He remembers picking it out, digging through a sale bucket of blue and green ones for the flash of pink and purple near the bottom. 

"Sorry, Sammy," he'd said, presenting him with it later, "I really tried, but they were all out of the unicorn ones."

Dean can picture the exact shade of Sam's cheeks. "Shut up," he'd grumbled, snatching it from Dean, but he'd been smiling nonetheless.

And he'd kept it, all this time. Dean pictures the case sitting on the vanity of the little apartment that had been Sam's home, wonders idly if Jess ever offered to buy him a new one, one that had all its letters still.

Up to his elbows in reminiscence, Dean almost misses what's staring him in the face: the last empty slot in the organizer is Tuesday evening's.

It's Thursday.

 _Three missed doses-_ Dean's vision blurs at the thought of what could have happened.

He's through the door before he even realizes he's moved, heart thundering with the kind of anger that chases relief.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he demands, brandishing the pill case. "Do I need to remind you what happens when you go cold turkey on anti-epileptics, huh?" 

The tablets rattle accusingly in their compartments. 

"Huh?" he repeats. "What the fuck, Sam? You're already killing yourself, and I'm not even dead yet!"

The impact of what he's saying hits Dean belatedly, and he stops, breathing hard. 

He isn't sure if Sam woke while he was in the bathroom, or if it was the bursting through the door yelling that did it, but he's up now. He's sitting curled against the supports of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest like they're his last defense. It takes Dean a few seconds to recognize the low, constant noises Sam's making as words, strung too closely together to be entirely coherent, like they're tripping out of his mouth: _sorry, angry, Dean, why are you yelling, didn't mean to, I don't know, sorry, too loud, too loud._

Dean feels like he's going to be sick.

He stumbles back, the ache in his chest gone suddenly sharp and stabbing. A surge of panic washes over him: _can't die now, not before I fix this_ , and he catches himself with one hand against the wall, trying to match his breathing to his racing pulse. 

Worse than any other part of the twisted situation is Sam surging clumsily to his feet in Dean's peripherals, dismayed little cry of _"Dean!"_ as he starts towards him.

The pain under Dean's sternum fades to something more manageable as if responding to his prayer, and he straightens up just as Sam's hands land frantic on his biceps.

"I'm okay," he assures him, fingers catching in Sam's sleeve. "I'm fine, Sam."

"I just want you to be okay," Sam says brokenly, like he hasn't heard a word. "Why are you so angry?"

Dean holds up the pill case. "You can't stop taking these, Sam," he says. "You understand me? No matter what happens to me, you can't let this slip."

"I don't want you to be angry," Sam says, distressed.

He hasn't' been this muddled after one of the seizures for a long time. Dean wills himself to put his issues aside until Sam's right again, but the urgency he's feeling is hard to kick.

"Come on," he says, grabbing Sam by the back of his shirt and steering him towards the bathroom.

He shakes the last missed dose into his palm, hands Sam the pills and the plastic cup by the sink. Sam stares at them like they're something entirely foreign. Trying to be patient, Dean takes the cup, fills it, and presses it back into Sam's hand.

"Take the pills," he prompts.

Thankfully, Sam offers no argument. Dean watches carefully, tracking the bob of Sam's swallow like he might try to fake it. He takes the empty cup back, when it seems like Sam has no intention of putting it down.

"You want any more water?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head. He's pulled one of his sleeves halfway over his hand, worrying it against his palm like an anxious child.

"Why are you angry at me?" he asks again.

Dean sighs. "I'm not angry, Sammy. You scared me, that's all."

Sam wriggles one shoulder, trying to pull his sleeve down farther. 

"Here, quit it," Dean says, tugging the sleeve out of his fingers. "You're going to pull a hole in that."

Sam releases it, but his fingertips still knead compulsively against his palm.

"Come on," Dean says after a minute, "let's get back in there. I'm sorry I interrupted your rest, okay?"

Sam drops his chin against his chest, glancing up nervously at Dean. "Are you angry with me?" he asks in a small voice. 

Dean catches himself before he sighs again or shows any sign of exasperation. "I'm not angry at you," he says again, speaking as clearly and calmly as he can. He wraps one hand around Sam's shoulder and leads him back out of the bathroom.

Sam comes to a stop in front of the beds, and when Dean turns to see what he's doing, he's still got his head tipped down almost petulantly. 

"Are you leaving?" he asks, and then, in a rush, "I don't want you to leave."

It tugs at something in Dean's chest, and he can't stop smiling a little. "I'm not going anywhere, buddy," he promises, and then, when Sam doesn't look quite convinced, he adds, "I could use a lie-down myself. Or so someone keeps telling me."

Dean can tell Sam doesn't quite get the rib, but he seems satisfied all the same. When Dean starts moving again, he realizes Sam's caught the hem of his shirt between his fingers like he might slip away; and there's that little tug in his chest again. He fights the sudden urge to say something silly: _I missed you, Sammy; I missed this; I'd never leave you, you know that._ He'd probably get away with it, too, the way Sam is right now.

"Come on," he says instead, guiding him around the bed.

It doesn't take long for Sam to fall asleep again, lying on his stomach next to Dean, one hand still curled in his shirt.

Dean doesn't feel remotely tired. Now, with Sam no longer awake and distracting him, he's slipped back into dark thoughts. The constant, throbbing pain in his chest is more apparent with every breath he takes. He's dying-- he's going to die, and Sam's losing it, and who's going to make sure he doesn't--

Dean sucks in a breath, cutting the thought short. He knows perfectly well who's going to have to keep an eye on Sam if he can't. Carefully extricating himself from his brother, Dean slips off the bed and to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he makes his way to the door.

Outside, he sits heavily down on one of the car stops, elbows braced against his knees. He presses the phone against his lips for a minute, not quite praying, but more than hoping. Then he flips it open and finds the number he's looking for.

He doesn't pick up. Of course he doesn't pick up. 

Dean slaps the phone shut before his father's tinny recorded voice has finished the first word. A panicky frustration needles through him like a physical thing, leaving him prickling uncomfortably all over. He's spent so much time lately trying to get Sam to back off their dad that he's ignored his own resentment, and he's startled to find how deep it runs. He swears quietly, allows himself a kick at the concrete stop when he's on his feet again. Then he takes a deep breath, rights himself, and heads back inside.

Sam's not in bed.

He tears around the corner from the bathroom when Dean opens the door, looking almost crazed, clutching his medicine bag in both hands. He stares wild-eyed at Dean for a few seconds like he can't quite believe he's there, and Dean's too startled to react immediately, or do anything more than stare back at him, wondering what exactly he's missed.

"I thought you _left_ ," Sam says wretchedly, face crumpling.

"Jesus, Sam, I was only outside about five seconds," Dean says, still feeling somewhat stunned.

Sam's dropped the medicine bag to one side, pulling up his other arm so he can hide his face in the crook of his elbow. "I woke up and you were gone," he says, voice muffled against his sleeve. "I didn't know where you were, I thought-" his voice hitches.

Dean hadn't even considered it. It hadn't even registered, hadn't counted as leaving in his head.

He starts toward Sam, stabilizing himself with a hand against the wall. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean to scare you," he says. He reaches for the medicine bag. "What're you doing with this?" he asks cautiously, tweaking it a little. 

"I thought you were gone, I had to-" he sucks in a quick, shaky breath- "find you, I just needed to get-" his voice breaks again, and god, what is Dean doing wrong that they always end up here?

"-get my p-pills, so you wouldn't be m-mad at me, I had to-"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay, Sammy, I'm here, okay?" Dean steps closer as he talks, takes the medicine bag from Sam and replaces it with his hand. "I just stepped out for a sec. I wasn't leaving, I promised you, right?"

Sam nods from behind his arm, squeezing Dean's fingers. The response gives the impression of a desperate attempt to regain composure. Dean doesn't call him on it.

"You feeling okay?" He asks after a few seconds, and gets another nod. "You remember what happened?"

"Did I h-have another se-seizure?" he asks, like he knows the answer. "You were m-mad."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, mentally kicking himself. "You weren't taking care of yourself, Sammy," he says carefully. "And I just- freaked out for a second. I'm really sorry I yelled at you, okay? I'm not mad, it just scared me."

There's a growing buzz in Dean's knees and behind his ears, and he knows he's not going to last much longer on his feet. Trying to be subtle about it, he releases Sam's hand and backs up until he can sink down on the edge of the bed.

Of course Sam notices: he drops the arm that's covering his face in an instant, eyes latching onto Dean. 

"Are you okay?" he asks at once.

Dean braces his hands on either side of him so he can scoot back towards the headboard. "Sure I am," he says breezily. "Come on." He pats the space beside him, picking up the TV remote. "Let's see what kind of crap's on at this time of day."

There's that determination back in Sam's face. He swallows and stays put.

"I'm not tired," Sam says stubbornly. "I gotta find something to-" _stop you dying_. He doesn't finish the sentence.

"I didn't say you had to sleep," Dean counters. "I'm just making you give that big brain of yours a rest and come watch something dumb with me and the rest of the laugh track."

Sam's expression doesn't change.

"Look, I'm not telling you you have to stop, okay?" Dean says, more seriously. "But I need you to take a break, just for a little bit. Would you just humor me? Please?"

It does the trick. Sam walks over, if a little more slowly than necessary, and climbs up onto the bed beside him. 

"You got any druthers?" Dean asks, hitting the power button. Sam shakes his head. 

"I'm going to fix this," he says, adamant, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap. "I'm going to make you better."

Dean turns to look at him, contemplating him for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly.

Sam's head jumps up like he's surprised. "Okay?" he repeats.

"Okay," Dean affirms, turning back to the remote like they've just taken a moment to discuss the weather.

Sam's breath goes out quick and a little shaky beside him. "Thanks, Dean," he says, almost fervently.

Dean lets it hang in the air between them for a minute before moving along.

"Hey, polar bears, Sammy, whatcha think? That looks right up your alley."

It's a documentary about the Arctic, narrated by one of those Richard Attenborough types with a British accent and a voice so soothing that it makes Dean feel like a little kid again. He's half hoping it'll put Sam to sleep-- hell, he's well on his way there himself-- but Sam's apparently wide awake, fidgeting with one of the loops on his jeans. At one point he pulls a hand up to his forehead and rubs vigorously enough at his temples to pique Dean's concern.

"You good?" he asks.

Sam doesn't take his hand off his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Just- feel weird."

"Weird weird?" Dean asks. "Or normal weird?"

Sam huffs out a little chuckle that edges on hysteria, then goes silent for a moment, like he's holding himself back. "Just usual- after stuff," he says.

Dean considers it for a minute. "What's it like?" he asks finally.

"What?"

"What's it feel like?"

Sam takes his hand off his eyes, looking curiously over at Dean. "The seizures?" he asks.

"No, like- now. The after stuff," Dean clarifies.

"Oh." Sam looks back at his lap, expression thoughtful. "Like-" he stops, makes a face. "It's hard to explain."

"You don't have to," Dean tells him.

"No, I'm not-" he stops again, apparently discombobulated. "It's like- everything's too big. And too loud, but not, you know, _loud_ , more like- too big in your ears."

Dean keeps quiet, fascinated.

"Sometimes it's like the last thing I heard just keeps going, like an echo, you know? It just gets bigger and bigger until I hear something else." He glances over at Dean briefly, and then back away, like he's divulging something embarrassing. "Everything feels _off_. Kinda like when you get really nostalgic, you know? Only instead of remembering it's like everything's unfamiliar, and no matter how long I look at things, or try to _know_ them, I can't- I can't." Sam's words are evening out, gaining confidence. "I just wish I could- block everything out, but then if I fall asleep it's even worse when I wake up, it's- I don't know anything at first. I just want it to _stop_."

He stops, abruptly. The silence stretches out between them for a minute, strung taut like a physical thing. The question on Dean's tongue feels heavy, cumbersome, and he finds himself oddly hesitant to voice it. 

"Am I?" he asks finally, clumsy.

The confusion is evident in Sam's expression. "Are you what?"

Dean shrugs a little. "Unfamiliar," he elaborates, and why does this feel so important?

"Oh. No!" The response is surprisingly vehement. "You're not- you've never-" Sam stops, like he can't find the words, but he's still shaking his head. "I always know you," he says. "You're the only thing that's not- all wrong." 

Any other time Dean might have teased him for his choice of words. Wiggled his eyebrows a little, at least. Right now, though, he's all warm and fuzzy inside, and oh, sue him, if Sam gets to get all emotional and say dumb chick stuff like that so does he.

"C'mere, then," he says. He loops an arm around Sam's neck and pulls his head down to his chest, rubbing his knuckles against his scalp. Sam squeals a little, grabbing at Dean's arm around his neck, but he's laughing.

"Ack- _Dean!_ Cut it out!"

Dean lets up on him, but he leaves his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam doesn't pull away, just scoots down until he's stretched out comfortably, head resting on Dean's chest.

"The polar bear, _Ursus maritimus_ , takes its scientific name from the latin for sea bear, but is known by many different names to the many cultures it has touched. He is Nanuk to the Inuit, Isbjorn in Scandinavia, Tornassuk in Greenland…"

Sam's head is a reassuring weight directly above the Dean's battered heart. His arm presses into Dean's side with every breath he takes, a gentle rhythm that instills a kind of primal comfort in Dean. This is who he is, this is them, _alive_ , and damned if he's going to give it up that easy.

They'll figure this out. Somehow, they always do.


End file.
